


Tools of Protection

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Gift Giving, M/M, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian reluctantly thwarts an attempt on the Archon's life, and receives an unwelcome gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tools of Protection

**Author's Note:**

> An anonymous prompter asked for something with Dorian & swords.

In truth, Dorian wasn't certain until the very last moment whether he would act or not.

It wasn't that he had any prior knowledge of the assassination plot; for all the spy networks in the world, one couldn't know everything. It wasn't that he held the least bit of love for Archon Radonis, to be sure; the man was Archon, and therefore by definition a scheming, duplicitous snake. 

But who, one was compelled to ask oneself, would truly benefit from the death of the Archon? Who, at this exact moment, was most hindered by his lack of open support?

And so he had acted.

It went like this:

"Where did you even get hold of this stuff?" a voice said, hushed, in a quiet corner of a courtyard which was very much not a part of the public area opened up for this banquet. "The Qunari don't exactly—"

"One of their wretched elven converts planted among my slaves," a second voice, quiet and amused. "Meant to assassinate me, I believe, after my achievements on Seheron last year. The Qunari are hardly infallible, my friend. They may be ruthless, but they are still essentially beasts."

This second voice Dorian recognised; had heard giving enough rabble-rousing speeches condemning his own proposed reforms. Magister Danaria took after her old tutor, as far as Dorian could recall; they had moved in wildly different social circles, but the man had been thoroughly infamous.

Perhaps that was in itself a part of what compelled him. He had never claimed to be above gaining a certain petty satisfaction in thwarting his personal enemies politically.

In any case, he had done nothing then; merely slipped away, walking as quietly as the Bull had taught him, and returned to the party, mind busy with the process of reasoning out who might most plausibly be considered a target for the delights of qamek by Danaria and her friends. 

He himself, of course. The figurehead of the anti-war contingent, laid low by the very people he sought to make peace with. He was not worried for himself, were he the chosen target; the Bull had seen to that particular piece of resistance, gifts granted for a lover one could not keep safe with one's own hands. Long afternoons of lessons, nights of the unpleasant work of resistance-building. The Bull's hands cool on his forehead, the Bull's lips gentle on his shoulder.

Better not to think of the Bull, he knew. It only ever made him ache, only ever tempted him to reach for the crystal hidden beneath his clothes at some truly inadvisable moment.

The assassination plan. 

Beyond himself:

Maevaris, certainly, for much the same reasons.

And, of course, the Archon, who opposed the Venatori and whose death at the hands of the Qunari would make for the most dramatic statement possible.

It was rather unusual that the Archon should attend a feast such as this at all. Therefore, this opportunity was unusual.

Dorian rather thought that it was the Archon who ought to be watching himself a little more carefully than usual. Danaria, like most of that house, had never aimed low in her life, except perhaps to hit below the belt.

He allowed the younger Septima girl to engage him in an assessment of the fashions of the season, and was pleased to play the eccentric and slightly stuffy old man for her amusement; Magister Septima was one of his best allies in legislative matters, although he would not have said he trusted her, and it was no hardship to humour her daughters, who were charming. Conveniently, this occupation afforded considerable leeway for surveying the room and the movements of people through it. 

In between comments on terrible impracticality of the heavy bracelets and anklets favoured currently and Septima's gentle teasing about his own insistence on clinging to finely twisted bronze pieces that pressed close to the skin, he had plenty of opportunity to see that one of Danaria's slaves had passed a wrapped parcel to some unknown man, well secluded behind a pillar but not as entirely concealed as might have been advisable. The man had then sat down at one of the long tables and gestured for one of the household's slaves to pour him wine, but he had drunk none of it, and he had a watchfulness to him that Dorian mistrusted, even in the suspicious atmosphere of any noble gathering.

He watched as the man discretely disposed of his wine and gestured for another, and then another; watched as he climbed to his feet with a very good approximation of drunkenness and stumbled a little across the floor towards the corner where Archon Radonis held court.

"Do excuse me," Dorian said, perhaps slightly distractedly, and crossed the room himself to pay the obligatory regards to the Archon which he had so far neglected.

He had still not, at that point, made up his mind; had not made up his mind as he bowed to kiss the Archon's graciously extended hand. Had not made up his mind when he saw that the movement of the room had allowed the man whose progress he had followed with such interest to step behind the Archon, just out of his line of sight.

He was not _certain_ ; he did not care for the Archon; he did not care to show his hand entirely.

When the man reached quietly into the pouch at his belt and began to withdraw a knife, however, decisiveness found him.

He sighed, and took a step forward, and said, "Oh, for goodness sake," and broke the man's neck cleanly. 

If he was clipped by the man's hastily raised blade in the process, well, at least the Bull was a man with a good deal of foresight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"For personal services to the Archon," Dorian snarled. "For personal services! As though I had given him a particularly good fuck or cleaned his wretched palace for him. What of my services to Tevinter? Of all the ludicrous reasons—from a man I despise, no less!"

"There," Maevaris said, laying a soothing hand on his arm, although if she were honest she had always found his theatrics a little endearing. "You should have seen Danaria's face, at least. I enjoyed it a great deal, I must say."

"Keep the wretched sword yourself, if it amuses you so much," Dorian said.

"Oh, no," Maevaris said. "You quite earned it. It was very nicely done. I would give you a great many points for style and timing. I've seldom seen better. The weariness was a masterstroke."

Dorian made a disgusted noise she was quite sure he had picked up in the South.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian was sat half-reclining on the chaise he favoured when the Bull arrived at the villa at last, tired and dusty and aching with the need for Dorian, for his smile, for his touch.

He was reading, which was expected, and he had a sword laid across his lap, which was less so; but he was eager enough to take the Bull by his harness and pull him down for a long, lingering kiss, and then another, and another, until the Bull's heart was fluttering in his chest, awake at last, no longer made dull and slow by distance. So maybe it wasn't worth wondering too much about yet.

"Amatus," Dorian said, with that softness that always shook the Bull to his core, made him wonder how he was ever going to leave again; that made it necessary for him to kiss dorian again, hands cupping his head to angle it back, to guide him, turn it deep and hot.

Dorian had to lay the sword aside in the end, anyway, to make room for the Bull; to let the Bull take care of him, just for the moment, just to make up for all those quiet nights of longing where all they had were words.

It was much later before the Bull remembered the sword, and by that time they'd moved to the bedroom.

"Oh, that," Dorian said, with a rueful smile, hidden quickly against the Bull's shoulder. "I wondered if you might want it, although it makes a poor gift, given that it's something I didn't choose for you and didn't want for myself. In truth, the idea of giving it to you is mostly about how much the Magisterium would loathe it should they know, which is terrible and petty of me. But I only have so much goodness in me, I'm afraid."

"What is it?" the Bull asked, curious. He thought he'd seen something like it before, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Let me up," Dorian said, shoving affectionately at the Bull's shoulder, "and I'll show you."

The Bull sat up, still half-tangled in the sheets, and let Dorian slip out of the bed, gorgeous in the afternoon light.

He returned with the sword, and drew it gently from its sheath. He held it easily, although it looked to be made for a warrior, with few of the markers which could give a clue that a piece was a mage's staff, disguised.

Still: when Dorian drew his hand along its length, it cracked into enchanted life.

"A token of honour," Dorian said. "A replica of the blade with which Hessarian slew Andraste."

"As in the blades of," the Bull said.

"Yes," Dorian agreed. Extended the sword with one strong hand wrapped around the grip, laid the flat of it gently on the Bull's shoulder. "In the Imperium, of course, they're called swords of mercy."

A lord and his knight.

"Fuck," the Bull said, and knew that Dorian would be able to see all over his face exactly how hot he found that, not the words but the gesture.

The sword vibrated quietly against his skin, the enchantment idle.

Dorian smiled.

Drew the blade slowly back. 

The tip of it scratched against the Bull's collar bone.

"Fuck," the Bull said again, quiet, reverent. No danger to this; Dorian's hand was precise, his movements deliberate.

The tip of the sword, a bare finger's width from his throat.

The Bull's breath caught. 

Not fear.

Dorian withdrew. Smiled a knowing smile.

"In the hands of a mage it can of course be a sort of focus—not a staff, as such. The technique is quite different, but the function is broadly the same. And in the hands of a warrior," he shrugged, "a finely balanced weapon, well-enchanted."

"How do you get one of these, then?" the Bull asked.

"By saving the Archon's life, _apparently,_ " Dorian said, and there it was, that petulant edge. "They are a reward. A token of thanks, or respect. Maker knows I've done as much as I possibly can to save the Imperium from itself, and what I get thanks for is saving the life of a conservative-minded man who merely dislikes the Venatori for the threat they pose to his position."

"Politics all over," the Bull said. Reached out a hand to draw Dorian closer to him, to touch his hip and the bite mark that he left there earlier. To run his hand up and down Dorian's side. "Just as stupid everywhere, huh?"

The sword rested point-down against the stone floor, still held solidly in Dorian's right hand.

"It would certainly seem that way," Dorian said.

"You sure you don't want to keep it anyway?" the Bull asked. "I've got to tell you, you look so hot holding that thing." He buried his face against Dorian's chest, inhaled deeply. Grunted aroused satisfaction on the exhale. Dorian smelled of sex, of himself, overwhelming after so long apart.

"I cannot think who I would use it for but you," Dorian said quietly. "I confess—I find it to be a symbol of much that's wrong with the Imperium. In my hands, it is hypocrisy. In yours, it might be subversion."

The Bull hummed acknowledgement. "Let me see you use it. Then I'll take it. Think of how you look holding it when I use it. Like a token."

"I believe it would be more traditional for the token to be a piece of cloth to keep on your person when you fight, or something of that nature, rather than the weapon itself," Dorian said, but he was smiling, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, mouth soft.

He took a step back, and looked around him to see that he was none too close to any of the hangings; turned the blade of the sword with apparent ease, hand before chest, sword raised in front of his face. He brought his other hand to the side of it, palm and fingers aligned with the edge of the blade.

Drew his magic to him.

It flowed outward from around the sword, flickering, dancing flames. They wrapped themselves around the blade, spiraled outward until they formed a brilliant cage of fire around Dorian.

He released it, let it spiral away into nothingness. Stooped to find the sheath.

"I could do a great deal more in an open space," he said. "It is in a way a hybrid sort of fighting style, rather like Madame de Fer's; one must be a warrior as well as a mage, although magic does lighten the blade a little. I'm rather out of practice. But we must know how in order to be proper Alti and Magisters, you know. One never knows when one may be honoured."

Sourness on the last word.

"And now you're honouring me," the Bull said. Grinned.

"Oh yes," Dorian said, amused. "After all, had you not taught me your tricks, I would hardly have survived taking a blade coated in qamek to the arm." His mouth quirked. 

The Bull ached. What could have been. A loss, a possibility of loss.

But Dorian was here, and breathing, and the mark on his arm was just another badge, a proof of his toughness.

"Just as well we've got each other's backs," he said. The Litany of Adralla drilled into his head. Focusing techniques to resist other magical manipulation, Dorian's instructions clear and to the point, his voice intent. Again. Again. I must know you'll be safe. I know I can't really, but I must—

We must both have done what we can.

"Yes," Dorian said, and laid the sword aside on the table by the window. Turned to the Bull again, stepped back into the circle of his arms. Held the Bull to him like he never wanted to let go. "Yes, it is."


End file.
